


Strikeout

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Baseball, Baseball Practice, But Only For a Few Seconds, Dad Dean, Dean Winchester is Ben Braeden's Parent, Dean being a dick, Heavy Angst, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Judgmental People, M/M, Past Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, Public Park, Sad Castiel, Some Humor, mysterious castiel, park
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 15:31:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12707781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: Dean shifts in his stance. “Uhm… I mean, no, I like baseball. It may not be my favorite sport, but—why am I trying to justify myself? I don’t even know you. And neither does anyone else, for that matter. They think you’re a pedo.”“I don’t owe anyone an explanation.”“The police might think different.”“They won’t call the police,” the man says, completely confident.“Why not?” challenges Dean.“Because,” the man says, leaning forward as his trenchcoat opens a little to reveal a freshly-ironed suit with a blue tie, “Everyone in a small town loves a good drama. It’s hard to be sated anymore by dollar store paperback eroticas.”





	Strikeout

“C’mon, Ben, pick up the slack!”

“What slack? I hit five balls in a row!”

“Don’t act like I didn’t see you loosen your grip on the last two, and don’t talk back to me,” Dean snaps, slapping the ball into his gloved hand. He follows the motion by lifting his left leg and stretching his arms back like someone being singed by an unruly fire. “Another round, let’s go,” he says before sending the ball flying.

Ben’s face contorts until his eyes are barely visible underneath his puffy and newly red cheeks. “Oh I’ll loosen my grip,” he fires back, throwing his bat into the grass as the ball flies past him. He storms off for the swings on the other side of the park, leaving Dean in the middle of a nearly empty field—nearly. The other dads glare at Dean like he grew a second head—or worse, dropped the f bomb.

He pulls back his stance and smiles in their direction, though thin-lipped. “B-Ben!” he calls out feebly. He sighs seeing Ben plop himself onto one of the swings and push off like an aggressive spacecraft. The stares aren’t letting up, so he starts trudging to fetch the ball.

That’s when Dean sees it not too far ahead, next the man on the bench. If anyone’s awarded the most weird looks by the parents, it’s this guy.

It is kinda weird, Dean supposes, the guy sits on the same bench every day that perfectly overlooks the busy playground. And he’s in a beige trenchcoat, of all attire. Dean’s only seen him from afar, but he’s overheard the rumors (because he’s, for _some_ reason, excluded from Donner and Blitzen’s reindeer circle).

That’s the thing about a small town: No one ever bothers to get to _know_ anyone. They just go off what they hear. The worst version of the whimsically woven stories tends to stick to keep their minds off their abusive spouses and “deeply disturbed” teenagers. Not that this guy couldn’t be a pedo, but Dean’s been coming to this park with Ben for a couple months. He’s a picky son of a bitch if he hasn’t found a kid he likes by now.

“Sorry,” Dean says, gesturing to the ball after he picks it up. Just as he’s about to head towards his son, the man, in a surprisingly raspy voice, like a lawn mower the place could so desperately need this time of year, speaks:

“They’re tough at that age.”

Dean nods, unsure of what else to rejoin with but “Yeah.”

“You just want the best for him,” the man says, looking up at him with eyes that give the slightly clouded skies more blue, “but he doesn’t like baseball… and neither do you.”

Dean shifts in his stance. “Uhm… I mean, no, I like baseball. It may not be my _favorite_ sport, but—why am I trying to justify myself? I don’t even know you. And neither does anyone else, for that matter. They think you’re a pedo.”

“I don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

“The police might think different.”

“They won’t call the police,” the man says, completely confident.

“Why not?” challenges Dean.

“Because,” the man says, leaning forward as his trenchcoat opens a little to reveal a freshly-ironed suit with a blue tie, “Everyone in a small town loves a good drama. It’s hard to be sated anymore by dollar store paperback eroticas.”

Dean shrugs. “Touché.”

“But you’re not one of those people,” the man points out, scanning Dean from top to bottom even though he apparently knows all about him. “You’re different.”

“Buddy, you don’t know how many times I’ve used that line…”

“You’re like a hardboiled egg,” the man continues, “You try to convince people you’re as hard as your shell, but you have too many round edges.”

“Maybe I’m overcompensating for something.”

“ _Something_ ,” the man agrees.

Dean scoffs, “You really are observant, you know that?”

“I only see what’s given to me,” the man states. Dean rolls his eyes before looking back at Ben, whose swinging has slowed down for the girl to his left. He’s probably raving about AC/DC, which, to another eight-year-old in this generation, probably sounds like he’s bragging about remixing the alphabet.

Dean knows his options, just as he knows either one will end with him burning on a stake. He can drag his son away kicking and screaming, or he can sit with the town creeper.

Dean chooses the latter, much to the obvious chagrin of the other parents, who start to huddle together to condemn Dean to eternal and fiery Hell. Sighing, Dean sets his glove and ball aside to lean back, stretching a little more so the sun warms his legs. For a moment, he enjoys the excited chatter of the birds and the restless hum of the bees swarming nosily around the trashcan to his left, and the springy cushion of grass beneath his loggers, which smells like Dean’s first kiss with Lisa. Before they fell in love—before it all fell apart.

Shaking himself from that thought, he cranes his head to the mysterious man. “So, what is it?”

The man narrows his eyes, forming large valley-like creases in his tanned forehead. “What’s what?”

“Your explanation,” says Dean. “Why do you really sit here?”

The way his mouth’s parted, he looks almost surprised. He searches Dean’s eyes for a quiet moment, like the water trying to find the grassy shore. Then, he clears his throat and looks down as he says, “I have a daughter … or, I did, anyway. I lost custody two months ago. I.... um…” He pauses, running a shaky hand over his mouth. “I have what the doctor’s call a disease. One day, I was driving Claire to school when I hit the backend of someone else’s vehicle. My… _disease_ impaired me at the time. She’s okay, but I was sent to thirty days in a rehab facility. I’ve been clean for two months now. I have withdrawals, but my itch isn’t for the the alcohol.”

“You wanna see her,” Dean finishes, looking out amongst the playground. “Does it help any?”

The man shakes his head. “Not really. Seeing how happy these other kids are just reminds me how much I’ve royally screwed up my shot at being a dad.”

Dean trades glances between the man and the park. He spots Ben halfway across the monkey bars with a big, triumphant grin on his face and Dean’s heart swells with sadness and realization. He doesn’t want to lose that smile. Not over _baseball_ , of all things. “I lost my dad recently,” he says. “I guess it sorta hit me. You know that maybe I wasn’t living up to his expectations. And I didn’t want Ben to feel that way… I don’t know. I want him to be tough and work hard and just… not make the same mistakes I did when my parents separated. I guess I’m just trying to redeem myself through him, which isn’t fair. And I’m turning into my father in the process.” Dean scoffs, wringing his hands. “Ben’s a good kid. Better than I was at his age.”

“What did you do when you were his age?”

Dean turns to the man with a small laugh, “I uh… may have knocked out a five-year-old.”

The man scoffs with a light chuckle of his own and Dean realizes he has a really nice smile, “You—?”

“He was messing with my little brother!” Dean argues, though can’t keep his own smile at bay, either.

“Wow.”

“Yeah…”

Another silence passes between them and then the man lends out his hand. “I’m Castiel, by the way.”

“Castiel,” Dean repeats, letting the name tickle his tongue as he accepts the hand offered to him. “Dean.”


End file.
